


Ode to Apollo

by homesickblues



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Death, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homesickblues/pseuds/homesickblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You, like Apollo upon his grand chariot strumming his golden harp for all the gods of Olympus and all the people of ancient Greece to love and cherish”</i> Grantaire had said as Enjolras collected his jacket after their kiss, staring down at the last embers of a once roaring fire, <i>“And I, Dionysus, getting drunk and gazing upon you greedily. How envious I am, Apollo, of the love you bestow upon them and not I. Not I.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ode to Apollo

**Author's Note:**

> I was just inspired to write a short adaption of Enjolras and Grantaire's death but with some backstory. I know I left out some of the dialogue such as the soldiers asking Enjolras if he wanted his eyes covered, but yeah.

Enjolras is alone. 

He feels it in every corner of his mind and every crevasse of his torn and battered body. It is not the jovial sense of loneliness which he enjoys fervently on cold winter nights when his thoughts are scattered and his patience is low. This loneliness aches. He never realized before now that one may be lonely in a room full of men. Men, specifically, with muskets aimed directly at his breast; men whom are mostly his own age, some his schoolmates. Men who, it would seem, are not prepared to stare into the frightened eyes of another man as they take his life. 

As he shifts his gaze away from the men with guns, and onto his fallen friends upon the dusty floor, the loneliness Enjolras feels is no longer simply a coldness ebbing at his senses, but all-encompassing. Enjolras soon realizes that he is, in fact, going to die alone. 

Regret. It floods through Enjolras as if his blood has turned to ice. He thinks of all the evenings spent leaning over a map, plotting the liberation of the country he regarded like a lover. He thinks of all the friendly glasses of wine he rejected, the conversations halted, the sleepless nights spent alone in his bed. A waste. All of it. 

He thinks of two weeks before when Grantaire had stayed later than usual after their meetings, not as much wine on his breath as any other normal night, and muttered these words, his breath hot against Enjolras’s neck:

_“I could see the gates of heaven itself, the glorious angels, the face of God… and none would hold a candle to your beauty.”_

And he had kissed him. And Enjolras felt the tenseness in his shoulders ease, and his eyes had blurred, yet a hurried excuse was made and he exited. Grantaire had been ever drunker after that night and Enjolras acted ignorant. 

He will never experience those sweet moments of humanity which he let slide by him, uncared for. He will never experience the softness of a lover’s flesh, the blooming sugariness of love, the warmth of a family… 

Enjolras takes a selfish glance out the window, at the barricade he had dreamed of, and suddenly wishes he could die upon it. Why did he flee to the café? Why did he drive himself to a dead-end in such a manner? He is lost. It is all lost. The people did not rise; the people did not come to their aid. His friends, his beloved and loyal friends, have died and yet he remains. Such cruelty that he remains. He looks down, his fearless resolve waning, his courage fading into blackness. 

“Shoot me.” He says, attempting to hide the shudder in his voice. More words are spoken then which he does not hear; mentions of Apollo. 

_“You, like Apollo upon his grand chariot strumming his golden harp for all the gods of Olympus and all the people of ancient Greece to love and cherish”_ Grantaire had said as Enjolras collected his jacket after their kiss, staring down at the last embers of a once roaring fire, _“And I, Dionysus, getting drunk and gazing upon you greedily. How envious I am, Apollo, of the love you bestow upon them and not I. Not I.”_

It is then he hears it. A stirring from somewhere else in the room, a mess of dark curls and bring eyes, so bright, so clear, walking toward him as if in a trance. But could it be that Grantaire was there the whole time and never woke from his slumber? Could it be that Enjolras had simply overlooked his friend? 

“Vive la république!” He proclaims; his voice like thunder and a soft breeze all at once. Enjolras glances up at his friend, bravely gliding through the crowd. He takes his place next to Enjolras, and suddenly the loneliness and regret is forgotten and vanished. Enjolras’s heart is full. 

“Finish us both at one blow.” He narrows his eyes daringly, before turning his head and looking deeply into Enjolras’s eyes, his very soul, if indeed one exists after all. Enjolras stares back into those wild and savagely beautiful eyes. 

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire says softly, like a secret.

Enjolras smiles then, because he has found something even more worthy than his France, his Patria, to die for. He takes the hand of the man whom he could have shared his life with, the man who followed him where ever he went, even unto death. 

And in spite of all of the eyes on them, all of the muskets aimed at their breasts:

Enjolras and Grantaire are alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if it's not great. This is my first published work on this site, and to be honest, I was a bit hesitant to put it up, but my [friend and beta reader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ridyr), said I should try. So, this is a learning experience. Thanks for reading.


End file.
